All Changed
by altenprano
Summary: Much to everyone's relief, Sybil did not die in childbirth. Not long after the birth of her daughter, she and Tom resolve to move to London, and they decide to offer Mairead the choice of coming with them and starting a new life. Sybil Lives! AU for "A Patch of Clover."
1. Notice

**A/N: So this is an AU fic of my fic _A Patch of Clover_ , which explores the events of _Downton Abbey_ from the point of view of Tom Branson's cousin, Mairead Hayes. **

**As I was working on _Clover_ , I began to wonder what might have changed in Mairead's life if Sybil had not died in childbirth, and this fic and the events that it encompasses are just that- what would have happened if Sybil lived? **

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Downton Abbey_. I only own Mairead, really. **

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_September 1920_

"Mrs. Hughes, might I speak with you a moment?"

The housekeeper of Downton Abbey glanced up from the linen rotation she'd been working on for the better part of the morning. She knew exactly who to expect—who else in the household's staff spoke with the unmistakable lilt of an Irishwoman, or with such hesitant politeness?

"Yes Mairead," the Scotswoman replied, indicating that the girl sit down. "What is it?"

Mairead bit her lip, and for a moment, her gaze dropped to her lap, where she was trying very hard not to fidget with her hands. "Mrs. Hughes, I just want to say…I….I'm thankful for the work I've had here, I really am. The family has been fair to me, and the other servants have become like a family to me, but…"

Elsie nodded in understanding. She saw where this was going—she should have guessed, really, by the way Mairead fidgeted.

"Is it time for you to move on then?" she asked, not unkindly, but in a way that hopefully would convey that she saw no issue in it.

Times were changing, that was for sure.

In the days of Elsie's youth, when she was still a young housemaid, when Mr. Carson was a footman, and when Mrs. Patmore was still a kitchen maid (strange, to think of Mrs. Patmore as being anywhere but her position of power in the kitchen), this would never happen. You stayed where the work was good for as long as you were able, until you decided to get married (if you fancied the idea), or until scandal threw you out. There was none of this "moving on" business, especially not for young women like Mairead Hayes, who had a promising future as housekeeper one day.

Nowadays, it seemed like more and more young men and women (more women, Elsie concluded, remembering the sudden lack of footmen and valets after the war) were staying for a couple of years and then heading off to greener pastures, be them other households, or jobs in the city. She wondered which it would be for Mairead—another household, or the city.

Mairead nodded. "Yes ma'am," she said, the tension leaving her body once Elsie gave voice to her thoughts for her. "I won't be moving on immediately, perhaps in three weeks."

"You do realize that three weeks might as well be immediately," Elsie said, not because she wished to snap at the girl, but because she knew Mr. Carson would voice that very same complaint when he heard. "If you had given a month's notice."

"And I would have, ma'am, only last week, we were all so worried over Lady Sybil and Róisín."

At the mention of Lady Sybil and the lady's child, Róisín, or Rosie, Elsie couldn't help but smile. "I see."

It had been a trying night for all of them, servants and family alike, when Róisín was born. There had not only been the anxiety that came with witnessing childbirth, but the fear that another danger—eclampsia—awaited Sybil once her child was safe in the world. Luckily, the window for the danger to show itself had passed, much to the relief of the Crawleys and the servants who admired the youngest of His Lordship's daughters, who had thanked Sir Philip Tapsell while Dr. Clarkson left in indignant silence.

After the successful birth came the christening, where the child was named Róisín Margaret Branson before God, and Lady Mary had been appointed as her godmother, while Kieran Branson, Tom's older brother, filled the role of godfather. The whole affair of the christening had been quite the event, and many of the senior servants were nervous over the fact that the child was being christened Catholic.

Mairead, however, gave no indication of anxiety over this fact. Not surprising, really, since she was a Catholic herself, and Elsie wondered if at times the girl felt alienated because of her religion, or perhaps because of her nationality.

Ireland was all over the newspapers, as much as anyone wished to deny it, and no doubt Mairead felt singled out at meals when the conversation went unchecked and politics arose as a topic of conversation. If she did, she said nothing, the dear girl, though perhaps it had become too much, and that was why she was planning to leave now.

"Mrs. Hughes, if I'm allowed any say in who fills the post of head housemaid once I'm gone, I would like to put Madge forward as a candidate."

"That's very kind of you," Elsie replied, smiling at the young woman's words. "I will consider it, but as you know, it's a demanding post, Mairead, and…I don't think Madge is the ideal candidate."

"Of course." A hint of pink rose in Mairead's cheeks. "Forgive me."

"You're forgiven, Mairead." Elsie closed her ledger. There was no way she would be getting back to that work any time soon. "I expect you would like a reference?"

"If you would be so kind, ma'am," came Mairead's reply. "I'd greatly appreciate it."

"Might I ask what you'll do once you've left us?"

Again, Elsie saw Mairead biting her lip. "I've been looking at work in London, ma'am," she finally said, releasing her lip.

"You won't go back to Ireland then?"

Mairead shook her head. "No ma'am," she said, and something akin to sadness flickered in the girl's dark eyes as she spoke. "I wish I could, but…I'm not sure I'm ready to go back yet."

"I understand." Elsie made a quick note on a scrap of paper to write the girl's recommendation, sort out her wages, and find a new head housemaid before Mairead was due to leave.

"Thank you Mrs. Hughes."

"Thank you for letting me know, Mairead," she said, setting her pencil down. "Until you go, I trust you'll keep up with your regular duties, with your usual level of industry."

"Of course ma'am," Mairead said, smiling. It was a somewhat sad smile—bittersweet, maybe—but a smile nonetheless. "I wouldn't dream of slacking off, just because I'm leaving…"

"I wouldn't think so," Elsie reassured the girl. "You're a hardworking young woman, Mairead, I'd expect nothing less of you. We'll be sad to see you go."

"I'm sad to be going myself, Mrs. Hughes, but it's time for me to move on, I think."

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 **A/N: And that concludes the first chapter!**

 **I hope you all have enjoyed this fic so far, and I hope you will continue to enjoy it as much as you have _A Patch of Clover_ (If you have not read _A Patch of Clover_ , that is 100% okay. If you did not enjoy _A Patch of Clover_ , that is also 100% okay). **

**Please leave any thoughts you might have about this first chapter, and I'll try to update as regularly as I possibly can.**

 **Thank you!**


	2. The Last Night

On her last night at Downton, Mairead said her goodbyes.

It was strange, really, to be saying goodbye, when she had arrived expecting to spend the rest of her life working there. How many times had she dreamt of rising to the position of housekeeper when Mrs. Hughes retired, especially after her dream of being head housemaid was made a reality?

"And now you're leaving that behind, aren't you?" she asked her reflection in the mirror of the servants' washroom.

There was a knock on the door. "Mairead, are you alright?"

Mairead couldn't help but smile…and cry a little bit as she did so. "I'm fine Madge," she reassured the other housemaid, checking her reflection in the mirror, to see if she really was fine.

Her cheeks were a bit flushed, and her dark eyes had a bit of red beneath them, barely hiding the faint shadows that she had worn since early that year. Otherwise, she looked fine, and she knew she wasn't likely to burst into tears—she wasn't that sentimental, not over something like this.

Coming and going was a way of life for young men and women in service, wasn't it? Change was ever-present, as much as the Crawleys wished to ignore it, and Mairead knew she had no right to resist change. As prospects changed, people moved on. That's how life was.

Mairead had grown up thinking her whole life would be spent in service, yet here she was, her last night as a housemaid at Downton Abbey.

"Your last night as a housemaid ever," Sybil had told her earlier that evening, as Mairead helped her cousin dress for dinner one last time. "I've found several places that are willing to give you work until you can find something more suitable."

"That's very kind of you," Mairead had replied as she fetched Sybil's gloves from where they lay on the bed.

"What is it you want to do, Mairead?" Sybil asked—the first time she had ever asked such a question. "Tom told me you've always wanted to be a writer, but you've never said anything about that, so I wondered…"

Mairead smiled, and color rushed to her cheeks. "I did want to be a writer," she answered, "when I was young, before I entered service."

"Well there's nothing stopping you, is there?"

"Being a writer doesn't pay too well, does it?"

"I suppose not, but you could manage it, I think." Sybil took the gloves from Mairead and began putting them on. "Why not start as a secretary? I'm sure you could find plenty of work there."

"I can't type, and don't you have to sit an exam to get good work?"

"Only if you want to go into civil service."

Mairead shrugged. "It might be nice to try," said she. "But that doesn't change the fact that I can't type."

"We'll find a way, I promise," Sybil assured her. "Until then, I don't want you worrying at all, understood?"

"Understood."

"Good. Are you packed to take the nine o'clock tomorrow morning? I hate to rush things, but the sooner we settle, I think the better."

"I am packed, yes." Mairead cast a glance at Sybil's traveling case, plus the smaller one for little Róisín, both of which were half-packed. "I wouldn't mind finishing up for you."

"Nonsense Mairead. Go enjoy your last night in the servants' hall. I don't think there'll be much chance to say goodbye in the morning."

Mairead had no desire to make any amount of fuss over her leaving. Housemaids came and went without much notice, and wasn't she a housemaid?

If she were Mrs. Hughes or Anna, then things would be different, because Mrs. Hughes and Anna were loved and revered by the whole staff, and they had given their whole lives to Downton. Mairead, on the other hand, had only served the Crawleys for four years, and she doubted the other servants had the same opinion of her as they did Mrs. Hughes and Anna.

Part of that was her own fault, and she knew it.

When she came to Downton, she had kept herself distant from the others, all except Tom, of course, and, for a short time, William. She recalled well the row Lucy and Alice had started with her, over Ethel and one of the convalescing officers, how that row had ended in Lucy's dismissal.

For her first couple years at Downton, Mairead didn't have friends—she hadn't bothered to make any. That was because she had Tom, and then, he had been enough. There weren't any other servants from Ireland to share her grief, or at least share the scrutiny she faced as the Easter Rising and everything that followed filled the papers. In the first couple years, Tom had been enough, and Sybil, in her way, had been enough as well.

But then Tom got caught up with Sybil and before Mairead could act, the two had run off or were married and Mairead was alone. For a time, she'd had Mrs. Moorsum—Jane—but she left almost as suddenly as she had come, and Mairead found herself in some sort of strange alliance with Mr. Barrow that frightened her more than anything.

Over time, she came to count Anna among her friends—well, count the petite woman as her friend, singular—at Downton…in the whole world, maybe, excluding Tom and Sybil, who didn't count because they were family. Anna was her friend and perhaps Anna's husband, Mr. Bates, who Mairead had come to know quite well through multiple visits to York prison, while Anna was away in France with Lady Mary, was her friend as well. They were a kind pair, each in their own way, and Mairead promised herself that she would try and keep in touch with the pair of them.

"If you're up in London, let me know, and I'll try to meet you," Mairead told Anna as soon as things were settled with her leaving. "Mr. Bates too."

"That's awfully kind of you, really," Anna said, smiling. "I promise we'll try."

That was good enough for Mairead.

As long as she could hold on to her one friend from Downton, perhaps there was hope for her yet.

At supper that night, there was no mention of Mairead leaving in the morning. Everyone knew it was going to happen, but, like most things, they chose not to talk of such things.

In the morning, the laundry maids and housemaids and hallboys and stable boys would gossip all they pleased about Mairead's departure, and maybe there would be some gossip going on after everyone had settled into bed for the night. That was all very well with Mairead, who listened to Alfred discuss the newest a picture show with the junior staff while she finished her last meal at the servants' table—her last meal at Downton, really—and excused herself from the table.

"Are you not going to stay for pudding?" Alfred asked, his conversation about Lillian Gish abandoned.

"I just need to take a quick walk, that's all," she told him (and everyone at the table, really). "I won't be a moment."

Her excuses made, she made her way out to the courtyard, glad for a moment to herself, even if it would only last a little while.

Outside, the air was still and cool—it wouldn't be that way in London, no matter where Tom and Sybil decided to settle. Somewhere an owl could be heard, its voice a soft _hoo-hoot_ beneath the sound of the early autumn wind rustling dry leaves off of trees.

In her time at Downton, Mairead had grown accustomed to the noises of the countryside, noises she had come to find solace in after a hectic day giving and receiving orders all over the place.

It had been a hard adjustment from Manchester, which was and always would be loud and busy, the stinking, industrial heart of the British Empire. Motors and animals, people going about all manners of business, sometimes as loudly as possible…Nothing like the country, which had its noises, but at least they were natural ones, sounds like the wind through leaves, or the gentle creak of wood underfoot, or the bleating of sheep and the grunts of hogs.

Mairead found it hard to imagine going back to a city, even one so nice as London, after having found the peace that the Yorkshire countryside had to offer her, yet she was doing it anyways.

"Having second thoughts?" she heard Mr. Barrow say as he approached her out of the corner of her eye. "A bit late for that, isn't it?"

"I'm not," she said, turning her head and half expecting him to be lighting a cigarette. "Didn't come out for a smoke?"

Mr. Barrow shrugged. "Not in the mood," said he. "Tell me, what's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"Leaving. Getting free of this place, this life. How does it feel?"

She bit her lip. "I don't know yet," she admitted. "I'm not gone yet."

"Oh but you will be, Miss Hayes. How does it feel to know that you never have to dust the mantle in the library ever again, or set another breakfast tray?"

"Mairead," she corrected, allowing herself a small smile. "Not Miss Hayes."

"If you say so." Mr. Barrow clasped his hands behind his back and glanced up at the sky. "But how do you feel about it all?"

"Honestly?" Mairead wanted to laugh. At herself mostly, but maybe at Mr. Barrow a little as well. "Honestly, I'm terrified."

"You're not the slightest bit glad?"

"Mr. Barrow, I spent my childhood with the knowledge that the rest of my life would be spent in service, because that was the only option I had if I wanted to make something of myself." She stopped, biting back tears. "I was content with it, I know not many are and I know I sound stupid, but I was content."

"But you're leaving."

"I know."

"Why?"

"Lady Sybil asked me to help take care of Róisín, and they're moving to London so she can train to be a proper nurse and so Mr. Branson can work for a newspaper."

"But isn't that still service then?"

Mairead shook her head. "It'll only be part of the time," she said, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes now. "Lady Sybil's found me several openings as a shopgirl, so I can support myself, take care of the child, and maybe I'll find something else that I'm good at while I do."

"What've you to be scared for then? Sounds like you've got a plan, and if Lady Sybil's supporting you, well, it's hard to do much better than that, isn't it?"

"She's been very kind to me." Mairead glanced at Mr. Barrow. "I'm very thankful for everything, but I'm scared. I can't come back to this job…if London doesn't work out, what've I to do?"

Mr. Barrow placed an arm around her shoulder. "You'll be grand, I'm sure," he told her, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. "You're a clever girl, smart, responsible…You'll find something, I'm sure."

She smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Barrow."

"Thank yourself. You're the one getting out. God knows I'd kill for half the chance you've got."

"You've got just as much of a chance, haven't you?"

"I suppose so, but you…you're actually getting out, Mairead. I'm jealous, I must say."

"I'll see if I can find work for you, if you need it."

He shook his head. "Just keep in touch," he told her. "If I'm ever up in London—and I will be, for the Season, with any luck—we'll have to see each other. You won't get too high and mighty now that you've left the servants' hall, will you?"

Mairead couldn't help but laugh—and cry some at the same time. "I won't, I promise. It's not like we'll be staying anywhere posh in London, between what Mr. Branson, Lady Sybil and I will hopefully make. No…simple does it, I think, and I'll be sure to keep in touch."

That was the second promise Mairead made to keep in touch, so maybe she had two friends at Downton, if you counted the Bateses as one.

"Not bad," she said as she laid out her clothes for the morning's journey, and checked that everything was packed as it should be, so she wouldn't be the cause of any delay.

Two friends was definitely an improvement, she decided, three even more so, if you didn't count the Bateses as one, but two. If three friends and tenure as head housemaid was what she had to show for four years of faithful service to the Crawley family, she could hardly complain.

But that was the past. Tomorrow, her life would begin anew, and she would have to face it, whatever came her way.


End file.
